


Stephanie Brown’s Journey to Ultimate Badassery

by EasfitHadia



Category: Batgirl (Comics), Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Self-Discovery, Slade Wilson is a badass, Slade’s not so bad (if you’re morally flexible), Stephanie Brown becomes a major badass
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:20:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24482677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EasfitHadia/pseuds/EasfitHadia
Summary: Steph picks a fight with the infamous Deathstroke. Instead of killing her, he does something unexpected.
Relationships: Artemis of Bana-Mighdall & Bizarro (DCU) & Jason Todd, Artemis of Bana-Mighdall/Jason Todd, Stephanie Brown & Barbara Gordon, Stephanie Brown & Bruce Wayne, Stephanie Brown & Cassandra Cain, Stephanie Brown & Jason Todd, Stephanie Brown & Slade Wilson, Stephanie Brown & Tim Drake, Stephanie Brown & William Randolph Wintergreen, Stephanie Brown/Rose Wilson
Comments: 16
Kudos: 49





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sons of Sirens](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16937496) by [sophene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophene/pseuds/sophene). 



> This work is inspired by a scene from “Sons of Sirens” by Sophene. It picks up at the end of my one shot, “How Would You Rather Die?” Hope y’all enjoy!

“How did you know I wouldn’t shoot you?” Steph asked as she followed the mercenary over the crest of a rooftop.

“I didn’t,” he grunted, jumping across a narrow gap.

Thankfully, he was taking a route Steph could actually follow instead of leaping twenty-foot gaps without a grapple, as she knew he could.

“Then why?” she pressed. It was probably a bad idea, but she needed to know.

“It would’ve healed.”

“Wait what?” Steph demanded, her mouth working ahead of her brain as the understanding of just who she’d been fighting dawned on her. “Son of a bitch!”

The gruff, asphalt burn of Slade’s laugh rumbled out ahead of her. She wanted to kick him in the balls. Fat chance, with him being a damned metahuman. She almost laughed at the sheer absurdity of the whole situation.

Sometimes the utter strangeness of her life since becoming a vigilante still struck her, no matter how accustomed to it she thought she’d become. In those times, the world seemed to shift beneath her and she felt so entirely displaced that she didn’t know whether to howl with laughter or scream herself hoarse. This was becoming one of those times.

Here she was, the little smart-ass from Park Row who used to dress up in a homemade purple Halloween costume and chase Robin around on the rooftops, suddenly apprenticed to one of the deadliest hitmen in the world. What. The. Fuck?

To the north, Steph could see the arches and spires of Gotham University. In another life, she’d still be a student there. She would’ve had two years left on her degree... She indulged for a moment, imagining herself on graduation day, throwing her cap into the air, her mother hugging her tight, crying happy tears. It wasn’t meant to be. Her father was the Cluemaster, after all. She’d been born into this war, bound to end up fighting for one side or the other. Maybe this way she’d get to choose her own side for once. 

“Where are we going?” Steph asked, hauling herself up onto another rooftop.

“London,” Slade grunted in a way that was just a little to _Batmanish_ for her tastes.

“Can I tell my mom I’m leaving?”

“Stop asking questions.”

“Stop being vague, asshat,” Steph shot back.

“You really don’t know when to shut up, do you kid?” Deathstroke asked. He was probably trying to sound intimidating, but Steph could see his lip quirk behind his mask. 

“Nope,” Steph replied cheerfully, “It’s part of my charm.”

“Let her go!” a voice growled, and the shadows split to reveal the inhuman mask of Black Bat.

Slade drew himself to his full height, eying Cassandra Cain carefully. It wasn’t a threat, but he was more than ready to defend himself.

“Cass, wait!” Steph hissed, “You don’t understand.”

“Behind me. Now,” she growled, not listening at all. 

Steph loved Cass like a sister, but she was really sick of people assuming she couldn’t take care of herself. She heeded Black Bat’s order, slowly slipping behind her shoulder. Then, while her focus was on Slade, Steph jabbed her fingers into the nerve cluster behind Cass’s right ear.

The girl passed out immediately, and Steph lowered her carefully to the ground. “I’m sorry, Cass,” she whispered. 

Slade watched the exchange carefully, studying her. “Come on, kid,” he said, not unkindly, and Steph knew she’d just passed a test.

They were more careful after that, staying at street level, ducking through alleys and keeping to the shadows. Steph didn’t usually come this way, but Slade seemed to know where he was going so she didn’t question it. It wasn’t not long before she found herself at a runway.

It was between two rows of buildings, short and narrow. If Steph hadn’t known better, she’d have thought it was nothing more than another back alley. But it was strikingly clear of the refuse that formed a gross crust over the streets of Gotham, and there was a jet at one end.

It was small and matte black. The fuselage was broken into a diamond pattern that she recognized as radar-scrambling. She didn’t know precisely what it is or where it came from, but it looked fast and it had enough room for two. When the cockpit opened, she climbed in without hesitation.

Slade gave her a minute to strap herself in, then the plane launched itself down the runway. They took off almost straight up into the air. The force was such that Steph couldn’t lift her head off the back of her seat. She let out a whoop of exhilaration.

They stayed vertical for about a minute, then Slade leveled off and they were screaming out of Gotham airspace. The plane was nearly silent. Even from inside the cockpit, Steph could barely hear the whine of the turbines. Even the Batplane wasn’t this quiet.

When she asked Slade about it, he replied simply, “Luthor’s an ass, but he’s got great tech and he still owes me a few favors.”

“Does this thing have enough fuel to get to London?” Steph asked.

“It’s got plenty.”

_“Master Wilson,”_ a crisp, British voice sounded through the coms,  _“I see we’ll be having a guest this evening?”_

“Yes, we will.”

_“Very good, sir,”_ the voice replied, ” _I’ll prepare a room for the evening.”_

“Thanks, Wintergreen,” Slade replied in a tone Steph decides to interpret as fond, “We’ll be home in time for dinner.”

“Hi, I’m Stephanie Brown,” Steph piped up.

_ “Pleased to meet you, Miss Stephanie,”  _ the man replied easily.

The man, she decided to think of him as New Alfred, signed off.

“So... you really are the reverse Batman aren’t you? Got a British butler and everything.” 

“We’re nothing alike,” Slade grunted.

“Suuuure,” Steph grinned.

The guy took her personality in stride like Bruce never had. He was gruff but, underneath, she detected a hint of humor in his words. Yeah, Steph decided, she can get used to this.


	2. Chapter 2

Slade owned a penthouse in Southwark, which was apparently some ritzy part of London. Steph didn’t know the city, or anywhere outside Gotham really. It was modestly furnished, dark leather and wood, a little old fashioned and almost cozy. It was also full of secret compartments, sliding panels, and hidden drawers. Way less conspicuous than that big ass cave Bruce kept his stuff in. Real spy-type shit. Steph approved. 

After a light breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast, courtesy of Wintergreen, she found herself in Slade’s training room. It was a large space, weights and calisthenics equipment on one side, an array of practice staffs, swords, and knives on the other. Apparently her new boss wanted to assess what she knew. Given that she was almost entirely self-taught, she knew basically nothing.

They stood opposite one another, unmoving, then Slade attacked. It was almost too quick for her to follow, let alone stop. He didn’t bother with anything fancy, simply shoving her to the ground. She rolled to her feet, thinking quickly. There was no way she could take this guy straight up. She’d landed near the weight rack.

Slade was still coming, this time to end the fight. She grabbed a dumbbell and swung as hard as she could. He caught her arm, grabbing her by the collar and lifting her up. Steph did the only thing she could think of. She kicked him hard in the crotch. 

The big man wheezed and doubled over, dropping her. She placed the dumbbell against the back of his head, ending the spar. Steph knew she’d been lucky. He’d let her land the hit. If he’d wanted to hurt her, she would’ve never had a chance. But as it was, she’d take her victories, however small, and run.

“Good,” Slade said, straightening up, “Now I know I can teach you something.”

Steph didn’t bother hiding her grin. Finally, somebody who was actually willing to actually train her.

“Hit me,” Slade commanded.

Not wanting to be a cliche, Steph swung as hard as she could. Slade blocked her fist contemptuously and swept her feet from under her.

“Keep your strikes tight.“

She tried again, punching her arm straight out. He took it in the gut without so much as a flinch.

“Put your hips in it.”

She tried again, this time drawing a little grunt from the man.

“Better,” he barked, “Again.”

Steph hit the man like a heavy bag. He kept her going for well over and hour. Hitting Slade felt like hitting a brick wall, but she kept going. She worked until she couldn’t move her arms, then they started in on kicks.

“Hips,” Slade barked at a weak kick. “Push through the enemy.”

He worked her through high and low kicks, taking the blows on his hands. They worked until her form was perfect, then kept working until she felt ready to pass out. It wasn’t until Wintergreen called them out for lunch that she was permitted to stop.

Steph wanted to puke, but she forced herself to eat the chicken salad that New Alfred had placed before her. Then they were back in the gym. Slade started her on yoga and calisthenics, saying she needed to build core strength. Power, he told her, came from the core, not the arms and legs.

He proved to be a surprisingly patient teacher, bearing with her when she barely managed ten pushups, saying nothing when she fell almost immediately out of a handstand. He just waited while she picked herself up and told her to start again. 

Three hours later, she was following him into his office. Like the rest of the apartment, it toed the line between elegant and old fashioned. A mahogany desk with a computer on top stood in the middle of the room. The rest of the space was dominated by books, spilling from the shelves, piled on the floor and the desk, every cover worn from use. She saw volumes on science, history, business, and a variety of other topics. She was surprised to see a number of fictions as well. It seemed someone had a love of the classics.

Clearly there was a system here that she didn’t understand, because Slade had no trouble finding what he was looking for. He swept around the room, pulling out books and piling them into her arms. Books on mathematics, military strategy, science, and languages. _ The Art of War _ , a book on Russian language, a treatise on Newton’s theory of gravitation, a book on the human nervous system, and another on the cardiovascular system.

“You have free reign of the library,” Slade told her, “but I expect you to read these first. Don’t touch the computer without my permission.”

XXX

Six months passed in a blink. Steph had grown in ways she could have never imagined. She was stronger, faster, and smarter than she’d ever been. For the first time in her life, she felt in control. She felt dangerous.

“Miss Stephanie, Master Wilson requests your presence,” Wintergreen called, poking his head into her room.

Setting down her reading, Steph followed him to Slade’s office.

“‘Sup boss?” she asked with a grin. 

“I’ve taken an assignment,” he told her, “You’re going to assist me.”

He handed her a file. “Read up,” he said, “We move out in two hours.”

Back in her room, Steph cracked open the file. Slade was being paid to kill a member of the Bratva in London. It was an easy job, the kind she’d lived with Slade long enough to know he’d never take if not to teach her. He was finally letting her in the field.

Apparently the target, Sergei Kovalev, was holed up in a penthouse in Greenwich. He had gotten ahold of family secrets and someone or other wanted him silenced. Steph didn’t care much for the details.

She started readying her gear, the nondescript black body armor that had replaced her old Spoiler costume, the handgun she’d only recently learned to use, and the array of knives Slade had insisted she try when she’d first started training. According to Slade, her compact build was her greatest advantage. He wanted her quick and agile and thought a sword or staff would hold her back. Guns and knives, he said, were the way to go. She returned to his office to find him dressed in similar black armor without Deathstroke’s signature orange accents.

“If you embarrass yourself tonight, I don’t want it coming back on me,” he told her when she asked, the corner of his mouth turned up in a shit-eating grin. 

Kovalev lived in a tidy little building, nice, but certainly not the best in the area based on what Steph had seen. Based on his file, that made sense. He was a front, a name to distract the police, and the family had dressed him to look the part. He was wealthy enough to attract attention, dangerous enough to seem important to those who didn’t know any better, but ultimately expendable. Up until a week ago, he wouldn’t have been worth killing.

Steph followed her boss, alighting on the roof of a building half a block away. The ventilation system made good cover and there was a clear line of sight through the apartment’s floor to ceiling windows. Kovalev was sitting on his couch, bottle in hand, speaking emphatically into a cell phone. 

She set up the tripod, unslung the rifle from her back, and screwed on the barrel. She settled the gun and adjusted the optics until Kovalev’s head filled the scope. She was almost frightened by how calm she was. She felt nothing for the man she was about to kill. She didn’t hate him, even though he was probably a monster. She took no joy in the power she held over him, even though she was so used to feeling powerless. She was focused, completely absorbed in the moment. The world around her melted away until it was just her, and the man, and the trigger. She took a deep breath and squeezed.


End file.
